Laura Marling and Hot Chip are waiting on youtube. My feet are in a bowl of water, trying to remove the dirt ingrained, playing catch barefoot yesterday. We are planning to gather some bodies for a hotch potch, approximate rounders game; in the February sun, revisiting July Friday afternoons in school. I hope I discover I like rounders, no false memories of joyful, scratchy, grassy afternoons, when the truth is closer to absolute athletic humiliation. We shall see.
It’s Pancake Day and I have only just remembered, and it’s touch and go whether I’ll make them. The more I think about it, the more I think I will; the crunchy sweet sour, lemon and sugar mixture might be too much to resist. Although actually it will be the slightly more exotic lime and sugar, since lemons are non-existent.
It’s only a couple of weeks after bone-shattering cold nights and cold air whistling past my ears; Julia and I huddled together in the same bed for warmth. An enormous pile of blankets, almost pinned to the bed, and a small nest of heat, a shock of cold if you dare to move your toe beyond the boundary to the cold sheet beyond. That is all past and I can hardly remember it now. The heat has begun in full earnest. It’s only the beginning of February, and apparently Sunday hit 40 degrees, although I was snoozing it away, so I can’t be quite sure. Already stepping outside feels like stepping into an enormous hot bath, the warm air pressed up against you. My fear of coping with the heat when summer truly hits is genuine. Becky and I remembered all the aspects of life that come with Monterrey in the heat. When the heat well and truly hits, I will:
a) Be sporting mosquito bites, in the double figures. Current record stands at 16 on one leg; a September special that one; heat, wet weather and windows with holes in combined. Apparently I have sangre dulce, which seems to be from some a compliment, although I would rather have disgusting blood and less bites.
b) Carry a jumper through the heat, to wear in any enclosed space; Stepping from a warm air bath into a sharp, cold, air-conditioned shop or room or car or house or building causes my muscles to contract, my shoulders to jump and the particles of sweat that live on every hair to form a small layer of ice. All within 10 seconds.
c) Spend a significant proportion of my pay in 711 on cold, cold drinks, packed with a sugar hit to get me through the next staggering 20 minutes; then, I come to the next 711 and pop in for another Sprite, or iced tea.
d) Spend minutes at a time with the fridge open in the above shops looking for the above drinks, as an extra cooling technique.
e) Have no choice of hairstyle- jaggedy fringe across the face is all very well and good, as well as tendrils to hide my lack of jaw line, but plastered in sweat to the edge of my face? Not a good look. It is then made worse by the constant movement in and out of air-conditioned areas, creating frizz that had previously been considered impossible by science.
f) Be extra grumpy, grouchy and sleepy.
g) Entirely unable to walk normal distances.
h) Dream of nights when curling up in covers was possible, rather than stretched out, wearing as little as possible, waiting for the beautiful sensation of air movement from the fan, on the edge of sleep.
i) Become suddenly aware of the backs of my knees, the little space where my glasses rest, my inner arm, between my toes, and anywhere my underwired bra meets my skin. All places, where, without care, sweat collects. Urgh. How unpleasant.
It sounds like a gale has just started outside. It is suddenly dark. Perhaps I should relax for a while.